


O, Your Honor

by jockohomo



Category: Le Comte de Monte-Cristo | Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Canon Compliant, Light Angst, Multi, Romance, Vignette, the struggles of an emotionally repressed lawyer man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25680070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jockohomo/pseuds/jockohomo
Summary: Gérard de Villefort and his partners; a progression.
Relationships: Baron Danglars/Gérard de Villefort, Renée de Villefort/Gérard de Villefort
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	O, Your Honor

**Author's Note:**

> content warning for extremely vague sexual references, implied non-fatal poisoning of a spouse, and villefort generally being kind of pathetic. this is a very tame fic.

i.

“I must say that the room has been making significant improvements,” she comments, running dainty fingers over the wooden railing of the cradle. “Within the week, it should be fully furnished, should it not be? The prospect excites me.”

Gérard does not reply. The room, indeed, has been transformed at astounding speed over the course of the last few days—truly, the Villefort family servants and additional hires deserve all the praise they receive from their employers and more. The walls have been painted a new color, the carpet has been replaced, the furniture has been completely removed and in its stead have materialized the beginnings of the new decor. And yet, there is something about it. Renée carries something of a smile in her voice as she peruses the most recent additions, but Gérard’s expression is as tight and severe as ever.

“Gérard?” Renée says, for what it sounds like is not the first time over the course of the past few seconds. She turns back to look at him, pushing a lock of dark hair over the back of her shoulder. “What do you think?”

He is silent for a moment, then, quietly, “I am not so sure. Does the light not seem a touch too strong?” His voice rises in volume. “And the color—are you sure that we chose correctly? The heat, as well, seems perhaps a bit much for a child to handle comfortably. I am quite afraid that we have been hasty—that I have been hasty, rather. I do not intend to implicate you of any fault.”

His barrage of concerns is exhausted astonishingly quickly, and it is not until after he has finished that realizes how rushed it was. More alarmingly, Renée is looking at him with a skeptical arch in her eyebrows. His face warms.

“How was work yesterday, my dear?” she asks gently, stepping toward him. “You did not find yourself faced with an unfavorable result, did you?”

“An unfavorable—ah, no, most certainly not. Everything went quite as well as could be expected. That is to say—” Gérard catches the slight frown pulling at her lips and stops himself. “I will spare you the details, love. Why do you ask?”

“It seems clear that you are under no small amount of strain. I am simply unsure as to why.”

If Gérard had managed to stop blushing before, his efforts have gone to waste now; his face, normally pale and gaunt, has turned scarlet. He feels like a child caught in the middle of some cruel prank, although he cannot tell if he is the victim or the one pulling off the jape. He hardly even realizes how tightly he is wringing his hands.

“Renée—do you believe that I will make a suitable father?”

She looks at him for a moment, as if she is registering the question, and then her face breaks into a warm smile. He is not sure what exactly is worth smiling about, yet heat fills his chest.

“Of course I do,” she replies simply, and suddenly her hands are on his. “You are an admirable man, darling. I have complete faith in you—and even if you cannot share that faith, you have no truer confidant than your wife.”

If there is a trace of melancholy in her voice, Gérard is unaware of it.

ii.

Her breathing has grown quiet long before Villefort has the chance to steady his own; it is amazing, really, how rapidly his own stamina has begun to deteriorate. Amazing in a sad way—it is not the type of thing he is quite fond of thinking about. His nightly experiences are not what they used to be, and he can’t even bring himself to blame _her_ for it. He can’t bring himself to blame anyone, just this once, for now.

She looks lovely like this, with her back to him and her dark hair undone over her shoulders; it’s almost enough for him to pretend.

 _Almost_ enough. There are some itches that can never be scratched, but he will stall on admitting that for as long as he can.

Suddenly (to him, at least, it is sudden—in reality, he had simply been too caught in his own mind to notice it at first), Hermine de Nargonne rolls onto her back and turns her head to look up at him. “Are you quite alright?”

“Hm?” Villefort blinks several times before glancing down to her. His mouth is dry. “Do I seem out of sorts?”

She looks at him for a moment and, clearly not meaning it, says, “Perhaps I was mistaken.”

“Perhaps,” Villefort repeats, with a smile that does not reach his eyes. “I am rather tired, that is all.”

He lowers himself down onto his back with caution uncharacteristic of a man his age and fixes his eyes on the ceiling. He considers reaching for her hand and does not.

“You are often more talkative during occasions like this. That is all,” Nargonne says after a long period of silence.

“Do you wish for me to speak, then?”

“You are an intelligent man—that is the general opinion of your peers, and I believe it as well. It is an attractive quality, and I cannot say that I do not find conversation with you to be anything other than stimulating,” Nargonne answers. “I am tired as well, however, and it is less interesting to discuss law and politics when one is tired.”

There is no shortage of topics to discuss that do not involve law and politics, of course. The trouble is that Villefort has nothing to say of them.

iii. 

The door closes with a dull thud. 

“I thought that I might find you here, dear. You are so absorbed with your work, even at home.”

The crown prosecutor does not reply immediately; for a moment he continues squinting at the paper before him, fingers pressing so tensely at the document that he must be leaving prints on it. Then, voice meticulously clear, he replies, “Such is a career in service to the public. Do you have need for me? I did not expect to see you until the evening.”

“I fear that you lose yourself far too deeply in those documents of yours to remember the hour,” she replies lightly. “Ah, but I heard that you had been complaining of a headache earlier in the day.”

He looks up, pushing his glasses to the bridge of his nose. Héloïse is a few paces from his desk, smiling serenely and carrying a tray of what appears to tea, and he cannot explain the strange feeling that grips his stomach when he sees her. “I do not remember mentioning anything like that, but it is possible. Either way, the thing is gone now.”

Héloïse laughs. “Perhaps I should have spoken to you before I went to make you anything, but I was so hesitant to disturb you more often than necessary that I ventured to make it a surprise. I hope it is not troublesome to you.”

He cannot help but think that she is trying to make a point—and yet he cannot bring himself to acknowledge it. Instead, the crown prosecutor finds himself giving the cup a pensive look. “I must thank you for the kind gesture. You were under no obligation to burden yourself with this.”

Something about Héloïse’s countenance suggests that she is inclined to laugh again, yet she does not. “I am your wife, darling. What could possibly give me more joy than to ease my husband’s pain?”

It is all the crown prosecutor can do not to shudder. There is something to be said for the drinks Héloïse brings him on occasion—something to be said for how he consistently feels somewhat ill in the hours after consuming them. The crown prosecutor, distributor of justice in all its glory, has not yet realized this connection; perhaps he never will. It is for another reason that his skin pales, briefly grippled by cold.

“That is a touching sentiment,” he replies, finally. 

Héloïse places the tray on his desk and meets his eyes with that same tranquil smile. “Be careful not to overwork yourself, please. This is all your wife asks of you.”

“That is not always a luxury I am able to allow myself,” the crown prosecutor says—so valiantly, so passionately, like a real martyr for his profession. It is only a pity that his voice sounds so dead. “I will attempt it, still, if it will save you the concern.”

Héloïse doesn’t reply; she remains there, watching him expectantly in a way that is more hungry than it is enthusiastic. Whatever hope she has is in vain—her husband does not touch the tea, and within seconds is immersed in his work once more. Any disappointment that shows on her face is brief; she laughs again and exits the room. 

iv.

He cannot remember the last time it snowed here, wherever _here_ truly is. It may have been a year; it may have been more than that. It seems impossible to tell these days, with no court cases to pour over and no family to provide for and no schemes from victims of his past lives, where everything pours into everything else and he is left with his thoughts, his cottage, and his impoverished corner of the village.

And his companion, of course.

The man—no longer a crown prosecutor or a father or even a madman, not really, even if he still feels like one—stands in the open doorway, wrapped in a ragged jacket several measures too large for him and gazing into their meager garden as layers of snow begin to build over the frosted dirt. The sky is gray and the woods are dark and the village, nestled away on the opposite end of the cottage, is quieter than usual. He never thought he would miss the noise of the city.

“Melancholic as usual, Gérard?” 

He almost jumps at the voice, but is able to anchor himself for once, and that is progress, at least. He draws the jacket tighter around himself and nods.

“It seems that you have managed to become a deal quieter lately than you had already been,” Danglars says, his voice closer this time. He places his arm around his companion’s waist and elicits a shudder from him—as if he weren’t already shivering from the cold. 

The taller man swallows dryly. A snowflake lands on his nose. “Perhaps.”

“Our circumstances are no worse than usual, although I suppose that is not helpful to you, is it? I can only hope it was not something that I did.”

“It was not,” he replies immediately, and then his voice wavers and falls silent. Slowly, after another moment, “I am sorry.”

“You are always sorry, my boy,” Danglars replies tiredly, “and I, in turn, am in neither need nor want of an apology. You need not throw yourself prostrate for the crime of existing—someday we will rid you of the habit, yes?”

The man—although he truly does feel like a boy when Danglars speaks to him in that manner—nods silently, although it is impossible to say if he ever _will_ be rid of the habit. He is tempted to apologize for it, or otherwise wonder if his partner is upset with him, and then Danglars kisses his cheek and all his thoughts freeze with the falling snow.

When he can think again, the only thought that passes through his mind is that his cheek must surely be cold.

“Join me inside,” Danglars requests, still lingering close. “It is near time for dinner, and I was hoping for your assistance.”

He continues gazing into the winter landscape before offering a small nod. An outsider, he thinks, would view this same picture and be ignorant of the holes that had been torn through the ground there months, years before in vain search of a child that he would never lay eyes upon again.

They retreat into the house. Gérard de Villefort closes the door behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> writing music was leeds united by amanda palmer!
> 
> https://gaspardcaderousse.tumblr.com/


End file.
